Sup With The Devil. Sara Craven

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      She made her tone casual. ‘I’m not sure what my plans are for tomorrow yet, I’m afraid. Isn’t it a bit early in the year for exploring ruins?’

      ‘I thought nostalgia was a warming sentiment,’ Blair said lightly. ‘However, just as you please.’

      It would have pleased her very much to tell him to go to hell, she thought, but for Rob’s sake she had at least been civil.

      And Hylam Abbey was one of her favourite places. The grey tumbled stones beside the smooth, slow weaving of the river had been a solace to her so often. The thought of sharing them with Blair Devereux was a kind of desecration.

      The sweet trolley came round with its usual cargo of cream-drenched goodies, but Courtney refused them, asking simply for a coffee.

      She turned to Clive, putting a hand on his sleeve. ‘Could we go fairly soon, darling? I’ve got a brute of a headache.’

      He looked surprised and gratified at the unexpected endearment, and the beguiling warmth of her smile and gesture. ‘Of course.’ He looked at Robin. ‘Can we give you a lift?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ Robin shook his head. ‘I think I’ll hang on for some more coffee and perhaps another brandy.’

      Courtney wondered whether she ought to give him a word of warning. He had already drunk plenty of the excellent wine Blair had ordered to be served, and he had no real head for alcohol. But she guessed there was little point in any intervention from her. He would be too annoyed that she had resisted Blair’s invitation to heed it.

      The waiter came to draw back her chair, and they all rose when she did and walked to the archway which led into the bar, Blair pausing to give orders for fresh coffee and the brandies to be served there. There was a slight skirmish over the bill which Blair won, and Courtney felt annoyance rise in her at his self-assurance. She wished Clive had been more insistent. She didn’t want to be beholden to Blair for the food she had just eaten.

      The story about the headache wasn’t a total lie. There was a throbbing sensation behind her temples, induced by stress, she had little doubt.

      They stood in the bar and she hoped her smile didn’t look as insincere as it felt as she said, ‘Well, thank you for a very pleasant evening. Enjoy your stay.’

      ‘I’m sure I shall,’ said Blair. ‘Take care of that headache,’ he added softly, and he moved, his hand lifting as if he was going to touch her face, stroke the curve of her cheek.

      Her reaction was immediate and violent; she stepped backwards out of range and collided with Clive as she did so. She had to apologise, of course, claiming that she had stumbled, and blaming her high heel, but she saw from the irony on Blair’s face that he had not been deceived for an instant.

      She wanted to say to Robin, ‘Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re going to say to him—for God’s sake be careful!’ But she didn’t. The whole situation was beyond her, and Robin would have to look out for himself. She was thankful to be going home.

      But that wasn’t all plain sailing either. Clive had taken her eagerness to go home as an indication that she wanted their relationship to move on a stage or two, and she needed all the diplomacy at her command to evade him, and his excited, seeking hands and mouth, and convince him that she really was tired, and her headache now a positive reality. He was clearly disappointed but still docile, and as she shut the cottage door, she was thankful for his gentlemanly upbringing. All the same, this new development might mean the end of the relationship, she thought with mild regret as she mixed herself a soluble aspirin and swallowed it with a slight shudder. She had enjoyed their outings, but she wanted no deeper commitment than that, nothing that might hold an element of courtship. It was her own fault if there was a change in his attitude. She had adopted a more flirtatious attitude towards him all evening quite deliberately, even though she wasn’t quite sure what had motivated her to do so. A desire to impress on Blair Devereux that she was no longer the child he had once known? She hoped not. Heaven help her if any of her actions was designed to impress him in any way!

      It was cold in her bedroom, but she resisted the impulse to turn on the small fan-heater. Even a small cottage like this seemed to eat electricity, and she was responsible for paying the quarterly bills, so she tried to exercise some care.

      She sighed as she got into bed. How different everything had been once. And how much she had taken for granted. She doubted whether she had ever given a moment’s thought to the size of the electricity bill at Hunters Court.

      What a pampered selfish little bitch I must have been, she thought, huddling the covers round her.

      The aspirin did its work after a while, but sleep remained oddly elusive. Courtney supposed that subconsciously she was waiting for Rob to come home, although it was unlikely that he would disturb her unless she left her light on, and she wasn’t prepared to do that.

      She didn’t want to hear any more about Blair Devereux or Rob’s fears and suspicions. It was disturbing and unfortunate that he’d turned up when he did, but it was a coincidence, no more than that. It had to be. It probably gave him satisfaction to embarrass them, and let them think he had been keeping tabs on them all this time. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering just how Blair had known about Robin’s association with Monty Pallister.

      She burrowed her cheek into the pillow, determinedly closing her eyes. Perhaps by tomorrow the fine weather would have fled, and there would be a blizzard. She couldn’t imagine Blair wanting to hang about under those circumstances.

      She murmured drowsily, ‘Please God, let it hail or snow.’ And on that pious request, she fell asleep.

      The first thing she realised as she drew back her curtains the following morning was that her prayers had not been granted. There were a few clouds about, but none of them threatened anything worse than the lightest of showers, and all in all it promised to be another fine day.

      Courtney pulled on jeans and a sweater and made her way downstairs to the living room. As she pushed open the door, she heard the sound of the telephone receiver being replaced, and realised to her surprise that Robin was already up. He wasn’t a notably early riser when he was at the cottage, and he couldn’t be afraid of missing the auction because the time was only nine o’clock, and the sale wasn’t due to begin until midday.

      She said teasingly, ‘Did your hangover keep you awake? Can I make you some breakfast, or would black coffee …’ She broke off, because she had just seen his face as he turned slowly towards her, and he looked pale, drawn, even haunted.

      She said, ‘Rob, what is it? Who was on the phone? Oh God, it isn’t Daddy? He’s not …’

      ‘What?’ He looked at her almost blankly, then recovered. ‘No, of course not. I thought when you saw him last there’d been an improvement.’

      ‘A slight one,’ she admitted. ‘But that doesn’t mean much at all, apparently. Well, what is it, then?’

      He sat down. He said hoarsely, ‘I—I rang Monty. I thought he should know about Devereux being in the area, and what I suspected.’ He swallowed. ‘He wasn’t pleased.’

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